The Towel
1018 Words
Morning found me already awake.
Not rested—aware.
The ache in my chest hadn’t learned how to fade. It sat there dull and insistent, like something bruised from the inside. Every breath pressed against it. Every stray thought threatened to split it open.
The rejection still lived in my body—not as memory, but as sensation. Tight ribs. Shallow air. The quiet disbelief that the Moon could bind… and a man could still refuse.
“Maybe I should take a hot shower,” I murmured. “That might help. Or at least ease my body.”
The pipes coughed when I turned the handle. Spat air. I tried again.
Nothing.
My wolf flicked her ears, irritated.
“Of course,” I muttered.
There was another bathroom across the hall—older, rarely used.
I wrapped a robe around myself and padded down the corridor. This one answered immediately.
Hot water. Steam.
“Finally,” I sighed.
Something good, for once.
I stayed too long. Scrubbed and scrubbed, as if I could scour grief from my skin. It didn’t leave. It never did.
When I turned the water off, the mirror was blind with fog.
I grabbed a thick white towel and knotted it at my chest out of habit. The robe stayed behind—I’d only be a second.
I opened the door.
Rushed toward my room.
“Ouch—”
The impact was light—shoulder to chest—but it stole my breath anyway.
Heat.
Solid muscle.
Hard, immovable warmth that caught me before I could stumble back.
I’d walked straight into him.
The last person I expected.
The world narrowed to the small strip of space between our bodies. His hand slid instinctively around my waist, steadying me, pulling me closer, stopping my fall.
And then?
My goddamned towel slipped.
Not far.
Just enough.
Fabric slid lower with traitorous ease, baring the upper curve of my breast, the soft line of cleavage that had no business being seen by anyone—least of all in a quiet hallway at dawn by my Step f*****g Dad.
Cool air kissed skin that shouldn’t have been exposed.
My hands flew up too late.
Jaxon froze.
So did I—in his arms.
He didn’t look away.
His gaze dropped slowly, caught by instinct before discipline could intervene. His breath stilled. I felt the heat of his attention like a physical thing, a burn that started where the towel dipped and spread outward, lighting every nerve.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Silence.
Heat.
Awareness so sharp it hurt.
My pulse slammed. My wolf lifted her head, thrilled, tail flicking as electricity snapped between us.
A ridiculous thought skittered through me—God, help me—followed by a mortifying rush of warmth that had nothing to do with steam.
Then Jaxon inhaled.
Deep. Measured. Controlled.
His jaw tightened. His eyes dragged themselves back to my face with visible effort, like breaking the line of sight cost him something real.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t a rebuke.
It was a warning—to both of us.
His hand loosened. I hurriedly stepped back, clutching the towel higher, cheeks burning, heart racing as if I’d been running.
“I—I was—my water—”
“I know,” he said.
His voice was steady now, but the tension hadn’t disappeared. It had merely been leashed.
“I’ll have it fixed.”
A pause stretched thin and fragile between us.
I could feel him choosing distance.
He stepped back. Space rushed in, abrupt and cool, leaving my skin buzzing where his heat had been. My wolf made a small, displeased sound.
“You all right?” he asked.
The question landed heavier than it should have.
“Yes,” I managed. “Just… suprised.”
A corner of his mouth twitched—gone before it could become anything else. “So was I.”
My heart stammered and I tried to walk past him but then he spoke up.
“Wait.”
I looked up.
The tension hadn’t vanished.
Jaxon squared his shoulders, the shift subtle but unmistakable, slipping seamlessly into the role he wore best.
Alpha.
Trainer.
Responsibility made flesh.
“From tomorrow,” he said, his voice firm now—public-facing, controlled,
“we start training.”
I frowned. “Training?”
“The pack needs sharpening,” he replied evenly. “Borders are restless. Wolves forget themselves when they get comfortable.”
His eyes flicked to mine—brief, intent.
“That includes you.”
Something in his tone steadied. I knew why he was doing this—to distract me from the pain and I wonder why he cared.
“You don’t have to,” I began, “I know why you are trying to—“
“I am doing what an Alpha should do for his pack,” he interrupted—not unkindly. Final, “A pack protects its own. Everyone learns to protect the clan. So, you are going to train. There’s no other reason.”
Typical Jaxon. He’d never show he cared and I? I wasn’t even sure he cared.
“When?” I finally asked.
“Dawn.”
Of course.
“Be ready.”
Ugh.
My wolf made a small, offended sound.
“Fine,” I said, the word sharp with reluctance. “I’ll be there.”
As if I had a choice.
We passed each other carefully, deliberately, like navigating a line neither of us dared cross. As I moved by him, his scent wrapped around me—soap, iron, restraint—and my breath stuttered despite myself.
His shoulders tensed.
He felt it too.
Neither of us turned back.
Inside my room, I shut the door and leaned my forehead against it, towel clenched tight in my fists, heart still pounding.
Nothing had happened.
And yet everything had shifted.
Control, my wolf murmured.
I exhaled slowly.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Breathe, Sasha. Just breathe.”
But now I knew….
I knew exactly how thin the line was.
- Writer
